The Visitor
by Carolyn Forche

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching
the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

***

nothing one man will not do to another

and there are photos. our dead, their tortured. coffins sliding from airplanes, silent as mice under doors. no families. no photographs, please, nothing to see here. no flag. a man on a box in a hood, wires to wrists, balancing. this one, naked, man in soldier green pointing, tangible laughter. how young he is, the laughing one. are we surprised men in hell become demons.

M.